


Legends

by Eustacia Vye (eustaciavye)



Series: Secrets of the Red Room [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eustaciavye/pseuds/Eustacia%20Vye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know," she said, voice utterly flat and soulless. "That's because of me."</p><p>And the legend of the Black Widow grew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legends

The room had been splashed with blood and there was the single slug buried in the wall that indicated that it had been discharged at close range.

Francesca Drakov had last been seen with her father entering the embassy in Italy where they had been renewing her passport and visa. While there, her father was assaulted and she was murdered ruthlessly by an assassin wearing all black with a red hourglass buckle. Apparently, she had laughed as she killed Francesca, a warning from her employers that he had to start toeing the line and following orders.

Her name was Black Widow.

***

"It seems so... fantastic. And not in a good way," Francesca had said, staring at the mirror dubiously. Her friend Nicole had wanted a sleepover before she left the country to renew her paperwork. Somehow she had been convinced to dye her hair, and Nicole had managed to get her hair color the exact same shade as Francesca's.

"Why not in a good way?" Nicole had asked. But there was something different about her, something intense and alien, making Francesca feel almost afraid. It was as if the girl was empty inside, a yawning maw about to swallow her up.

That was just silly, wasn't it?

Francesca sighed and decided to forge ahead. "Nicole. You're my best friend. You know that, right?" Nicole nodded, looking a little blank. "That. That face you have there. It's kind of scaring me a little right now, to be honest."

Nicole seemed almost uncertain for a moment, and Francesca had the feeling that she was seeing her friend for the first time. That this was really her, and the girl she had been spending time with for the past month had been just a front. Which was an odd thing, really, because the months before that had been utterly splendid.

"Francesca, I like you."

She blinked, staring at Nicole. "Oh, god. Are you going to tell me that you're into girls and you _like me_ like me? Because that's fine if you do—if you're into girls, I mean!—but I don't like you that way! You know how I was crushing on Daniel in class..."

"That's not how I meant it," Nicole said quietly.

"Oh. Okay." Francesca paused, seeing Nicole's shoulders slump fractionally. Something was bothering her, and maybe that was why she was so distant. Suddenly, she felt awful and petty, the weirdness something that maybe she hadn't seen. Maybe Nicole was depressed. Maybe something happened with her family; she never mentioned them, after all. Francesca had her own issues, and Nicole had listened to them all without complaint.

Now she felt like a pitiful excuse of a best friend.

Reaching out, she grasped Nicole's hand tightly. "Whatever it is, I'll help you. You know that, right? We're best friends." She left out that Nicole was her only friend. That was just pathetic, and if anything, she didn't want to seem like that if Nicole needed her.

Nicole let out a breath. "You're not going to like how you can help me."

Her voice was small and apologetic, and a chill settled along Francesca's spine. But she was a good friend. Nicole needed her. She could do this.

Smiling earnestly at Nicole, Francesca tightened her hold on her hands and leaned in a little to show her support. "Just tell me what it is, and we'll figure it out. I promise."

"My name is Natasha, not Nicole. And I need you to die."

***

The Black Widow had bright red hair, vivid green eyes, porcelain pale skin and a thousand yard stare. There was no apparent emotion when she came to do her deadly business. She was worth every penny she charged, and she hit marks with unerring skill.

It was like hiring a ghost, the way she was able to get in and out of places that others couldn't, no apparent difficulty at all. She was a ghost made flesh for the payout, then she disappeared into the shadows again.

Once or twice there seemed to be a shadow following her, a tall man that was heavily muscled and heavily armored, black gloves on his hands and a black mask covering his face, goggles covering his eyes. He never said anything, never did anything. Then he didn't appear anymore, it was just the Black Widow alone.

No one commented on her age. It wasn't her appearance that they cared about, after all, only her skill set.

And her skill set was glorious in its deadly efficiency.

There was one man in the underground that remarked how her training seemed to be similar to that of the now-dead Red Room. Those assassins had been efficient, deadly and graceful, as if they could dance their way in close enough to slit a throat with their fingernails. But the Red Room had been obliterated, burned down to the ground with everyone inside, adults and children alike. No one had realized that children had been present in the complex until that time, and it was assumed to be the families of the handlers and caretakers, perhaps the families of the assassins themselves; all of the assassins were nameless, faceless ghosts. Their identities had been a carefully cultivated secret by the Red Room administrators, and now there were scores of bodies littering the complex that was no longer secret.

"I know," she said, voice utterly flat and soulless. "That's because of me."

And the legend of the Black Widow grew.

***

"I don't understand," Francesca murmured, staring at Natasha.

"There never was a Nicole. She was a fiction. A cover identity that I had to assume."

Natasha watched as things seemed to click into place. She expected Francesca to recoil, to draw back and scream, perhaps call out for the father that didn't seem to care if she lived or died. He was no better than the Red Room handlers, than the thousands of watchers and administrators that had cultivated the bloodlines and forged little girls into weapons.

But Francesca seemed to have a resigned air about her. "It's because of my father." She sighed, still clutching Natasha's hands. "I know he's not a good man. I didn't want to think he was that bad, that someone would want to kill him."

"That's not too far from the truth."

She was confused again, and something in Natasha felt awful. Guilt threatened to swallow her up whole. The entire Red Room was going to die, yet she felt more guilt about this one girl in front of her than the thousands of faceless men and all of her sisters in the bloodlines.

"You're my target, Francesca. I'm here to kill _you_ and assume your identity."

Her eyes flew to the flawlessly dyed hair. She still hadn't recoiled, the silly girl, and the first words out of her mouth were "But your eyes are a different color! And you don't even have the same body type as me!"

If anything, that made Natasha want to cry. This girl was so innocent, no blood on her hands at all, no concept of what her life had been as the Natalia.

"I wouldn't have to, not for the casual observer," Natasha replied. "The idea would only be to fool someone that didn't know you, and pretend to be you long enough to use your identity while I need it, then discard it."

"But—"

"It's nothing personal. That's the way it's supposed to be."

"But we're friends," Francesca gasped.

"We're not supposed to be."

That threw her, the poor girl. Natasha almost wanted to wrap her arms around her and rock her the way she used to rock Yelena. And thinking about her with her babysoft skin and rolls of flesh made Natasha recoil inside. She would die, along with the other girls. Everyone would burn and burn and burn, and only Natasha would walk away.

She was a horrible person. She was the one that deserved to die.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"I only had to get to know your habits, your quirks, phrasing and speech patterns. I didn't have to be your friend, but it was the easiest way to get to you."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked in a small voice, finally pulling away.

Why was she?

"Because," Natasha said slowly, voice soft, tasting the strange syllables in her mouth. "I don't want to kill you."

The two girls looked at each other for a long moment. "Now what?" Francesca asked.

"People expect you to die. Including your father."

She obviously wanted to deny that, but ultimately, Francesca couldn't. Drakov was not a good man by any stretch of the imagination. It would only be a question of _why._

"So you have to die, and I have to take your place for the brief amount of time that I have to be you," Natasha said. "But it's only the _name_ that has to die."

"But that's me!"

"If you could be anyone else, have any other name, what would it be?"

Realization seemed to dawn. _"Oh._ I get it now. I think. But why do you have to be me? What's wrong with being you?"

"It's not just you that has to die. About a hundred other girls will need to. And all the handlers and watchers and administrators that helped to turn us all into killers."

Francesca looked so stunned by her bland pronouncement, it was a good thing she was already sitting down. She took a deep breath. "Tell me everything." She even put on a brave smile, and Natasha's heart broke a little. "Dead girls can't expose secrets, after all."

Slowly, carefully, Natasha began to speak.

***

The Black Widow didn't care who hired her or who the target was. She had no allegiances to any organization or country, and didn't seem to belong anywhere herself. There were drop boxes and relayed phone numbers that no one could trace the origins of. Whispers began to circulate that it wasn't one Widow but a dozen, that there was an entire network of girls all calling themselves the Black Widow.

Only, she always had bright red hair, vivid green eyes and porcelain pale skin. She always looked the same, always knew about her past kills and took ownership over every job that she had been hired to do.

In Sao Paolo, an infamous drug lord with ties to the government was killed in a stunning spray of blood and guts; he was kicked out of the window with his own intestines wrapped around his throat and hooked into a piece of the shattered window frame. He choked on his own blood and shit, feet kicking as he was slowly strangled to death, pain whiting out his vision and making it difficult to breathe in deeply anyway. Even worse, those that would have investigated it, prosecuted anyone found involved in the murder and all of his politico friends were found with their throats slit, limbs splayed and eyes staring up in shock. All of their security forces were found dead as well, full of bullet holes or slash marks.

And it was clear from bloody footprints that a single person did all of it.

In Morocco, a photographer who was blackmailing several wealthy politicians was found floating in his pool. He had three bullets to the chest and his camera was missing. Further searches of his home by local police revealed that all incriminating photos as well as his computer were also missing.

A man in Geneva was found beaten to death with pieces of an ornate chair from his sitting room, his wife smothered in her bed as she slept. Investigation by authorities found that he had owed quite a bit of money to local loan sharks.

Investigation into the loan sharks found that half of _them_ were killed, apparently because they had been the ones to hire an assassin to kill the man and wife, then thought they could refuse to pay the fee and kill her. She had taken them all down with ruthless efficiency, leaving only one witness behind to tell the others in their group about the situation. They had promptly paid up the entire fee.

Businessmen hired her to extract secrets from their rival companies. Formulas and biomedical research was stolen from pharmaceutical firms and sold to the highest bidder. High grade weapons were stolen from rogue militant groups and resold on the black market at exorbitant prices. The woman selling children to rich families was strung up by her heels and gutted, bleeding to death on her expensive rugs. A child pornographer was found castrated and cut up, left in a hospital parking lot for authorities to find. He didn't do well when he was sent to prison for his crimes, and died of his injuries there.

Not all of her victims were on the wrong side of the law. There were the businessmen whose wives had them killed for the balances of their bank accounts. There were the men wanting wealthy wives out of the way so they could marry their much younger girlfriends. Or girlfriends wanting lovers beaten in retaliation for domestic abuse. Once there was an entire household razed to the ground as a warning to neighbors that were involved in drug running.

She wouldn't take the jobs that involved kidnapping young children and selling them or sending them to prostitution rings. But she did torch an entire wing of a hospital to cover her tracks when authorities were closing in; her target had been a pediatrician and pharmacy tech at the hospital that were cooking crystal meth in its basement. The newspapers picked up on that one and broadcast far and wide what her death toll was, and it included a children's unit.

The Black Widow also blew up the top floor of a hotel, set fire to a ballet studio, arranged to have a dry cleaner go bankrupt, maneuvered a transport company into delivering stolen goods, and destroyed the control room in a television station; none of these seemed likely targets for an assassin, but that didn't mean much on the underground. They knew full well that people weren't always what they appeared to be.

Her kill list was impressive and spectacular. She was the assassin that was hired if the job had to be done quietly, messily, or in the flashiest way possible. No job was too difficult, no one was impossible to get to. The harder, the better; she never turned down those kinds of jobs offered, and the payouts were spectacular but always earned. No one could fault how flawless her executions were. 

Speculation was rampant. The Black Widow was an enigma; she couldn't possibly be an actual widow, could she? She seemed far too young for that. She blended in despite her beaconlike red hair, as if she could be anyone and anything, belonged everywhere and nowhere. Speaking several languages, she never had a stranger's accent; she always spoke as if she was a native, no trace of what her homeland might have been. Her training was impossible to miss but also impossible to pin down. Weapons, hand to hand combat, sniper rifles, blades, poisons and elaborate accidents all looked equally easy to inflict. She was a fair hand at espionage, electronic warfare and hacking. Somehow, she evaded all attempts to be found unless she wanted to be, and no one knew what her agenda was, if she had one.

Years spun by, adding to the kill list. Her legend was unshakable.

So of course, that put her on the radar of several intelligence agencies. Including SHIELD.

***

Francesca slumped in her seat, the red hair no longer feeling glamorous or remarkable. She felt like a little girl playing dress up in her mother's clothes. Everything was wrong and awkward, and she couldn't be Nicole.

Then again, Nicole had to die, too.

"So who am I supposed to be again?" she asked, aware that there was a slight whine to her voice.

Natasha looked her over. "Nicole until you get to the hotel room. Then you dye your hair again, and take the identity we've arranged for you."

The "we" referred to Natasha and a tall, well built man dressed in body armor, a heavy jacket and black gloves he never took off. He never introduced himself, and barely even said a word to Francesca. She wondered who he was and why he was so important.

"You will not be involved," he told Natasha sternly. "I will handle arrangements, as I have for the complex."

At those words, she blanched. "But we agreed—"

"You are not involved," he repeated, voice brooking no argument. "You will take credit for both events under whatever name you choose."

Francesca thought that Natasha looked about ready to cry, though few muscles in her face changed. It was downright eerie to watch. "I don't understand," she began softly.

"Say goodbye," the man said. There was a softness under his stern voice, something Francesca didn't understand. "You will not see each other again."

And then Francesca understood.

She stood in shock as Natasha gripped her tightly in a bear hug, as if she didn't ever want to let Francesca go. "I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I'm so, so sorry."

Not knowing what to say in reply, Francesca hugged her back. Maybe she should have said she forgave Natasha, that she understood why things had to be this way. But it wasn't fair, even if it wasn't her fault, and there was enough anger in Francesca that she couldn't give absolution for her own murder.

"Don't forget me," she said instead. "And whoever hired you, make them pay."

Something seemed to break in Natasha, and she gripped Francesca a little tighter. "I didn't mean to. I _liked_ being Nicole. I _liked_ this."

Remembering how she grew up, the training and competition and the memories that were put in or shuffled around, Francesca felt almost heartsick for her. "I liked being your friend. It was nice to have one, even if it was for a little while."

That made her choke back a sob, and the man growled "Natalia!" at the sound of it.

She pulled back, her facial features betraying none of the turmoil she had displayed just moments before. "I understand," she said, voice soft, Francesca's cadence to it. It was eerie to watch.

And then she was gone, leaving Francesca with the man.

Lifting her chin a notch, she stared at him. "I might not be a fighter, but I'll make sure you have to work to kill me." Brave words she didn't know if she could follow through with, but it felt good to say.

He looked bored, though. His grip was painfully tight on her arm, and he all but dragged her out of the room. "I will scream for my father," she tried.

"Who do you think offered you up?" he answered, voice laced with disgust. "Your life to pay for his. We're just using it to help Natalia."

Though she knew her father wasn't a good man, she still felt sick to hear a stranger dismiss him so casually. "No, you don't know that..."

"Your loyalty is misplaced. A true father would protect his child. A true father would do whatever it took to keep his daughter safe." There was something dark in his voice, something ugly and strange she couldn't recognize. "He was no father to you."

Francesca wanted to protest, but the words died unspoken. No need to lie to the man that would kill her. "What happens now?" she asked hoarsely.

They were moving quickly through the house. She had no idea how he knew the layout, but he was using all the back hallways that her father's men didn't usually use, and any staff were long gone by now. Her heart sank when she realized they were heading for the garage, though it also made sense. Why kill her here? Natasha had to pretend to be her for the rest of the week.

Once they were in the car, they were zooming away. "Your name is going to be Lucia Moretti," he said abruptly after an hour of silence. "You were born in Milan, but both of your parents were killed in a traffic accident not too long ago. Now you will go to a foster family until you reach your majority. At that time, you can choose where to go and what to do. No one will stop you. There is no one after Lucia. But you will _never_ contact Natalia again."

She stared at him in shock. "She thinks you're going to kill me."

"As she must. And Francesca Drakov will die as planned."

Waving away the technicality, Francesca frowned at him. "How could you lie to her? She's devastated by the thought of you killing me."

"If she knows you're alive, she will search for you. If she knew that there will be survivors from the complex, she will look for them."

Francesca looked at him, horrified. "You're saving the girls she grew up with?"

"Some of them. Not all of them can be saved, and it would ruin the cover story."

"You're destroying her!"

 _"I'm saving her!"_ he snarled, looking at her with a frightening expression. "It took four years to set this plan into place. _They own me._ I had to make the connections and plans in between missions, when they did not need me. I had to replace connections when some were killed. I could not find homes for all of the girls, and there are a great many that would never want to leave. But the young ones, they can be saved."

"You're not giving them a choice. Natasha would—"

"If she knew, she would find them. Try to defend them."

"So? How is that a bad thing?"

"Destroying the complex doesn't guarantee I get them all." His voice was quiet, subdued.

"You can help her, can't you?"

"I cannot. I am only on loan to them. With the Red Room gone, I revert back to Department X," he said, voice even.

"What does that mean?"

"They will wipe me."

"Erase your memory?" she asked, horrified.

"Yes. They will take everything away. I won't remember Natalia. Either Natalia. But the important thing is that she will be free, and so will all of you. Because they will erase the knowledge of where you all are. And I am the only one that knows."

"That's why you're telling me not to find her," Francesca breathed. "Because I'll remember her, and I'll know..."

"She would die to defend you and the others if she knew they existed," he said grimly. "And if there is any administration left, they will find you all and enslave you. Then all this sacrifice will be for nothing."

Impulsively, Francesca reached over to touch his arm. "Thank you."

"Your name is Lucia Moretti," he repeated firmly.

Heart breaking, she nodded. "My name is Lucia Moretti."

They went over her history thoroughly during the rest of the ride. Most details were similar to her actual life, so it was easy to remember. He pulled up a house in the Italian countryside, and Lucia looked at it, biting her lip. The soldier in the meantime got out bags from the trunk. She was startled to realize they were the same bags she had packed to go to the embassy. Natasha wouldn't have any luggage—

No, she didn't need it. She wasn't going to be Francesca for very long anyway.

The couple that would be her foster parents were middle aged and kindly, with a fierce, strong thread running through them. "We'll be able to keep the girls safe," they assured the soldier.

Girls?

As if answering her unspoken question, a lithe blonde appeared. She was eight or nine years old perhaps, and looked at Lucia appraisingly. "You can't fight," she declared, telling Lucia that she had been one of the Red Room girls.

The soldier loomed behind Lucia. "Yelena," he said, nodding deferentially at her. "You got to keep your first name. She couldn't keep hers."

"Because she can't protect herself," Yelena scoffed. She crossed her arms as she looked at Lucia, something like a dismissive sneer on her face. "I had the best scores for my age. I am second only to the Natalia throughout all records."

"There are no more scores," the soldier snarled. Yelena uncrossed her arm and looked up at the soldier in startled fear. "You can train her. Teach her what you know, so none would destroy you. Because if you are discovered, you might be taken. Or killed."

Lucia blanched, even if she had already realized those were the stakes for hiding her away. The foster parents merely nodded gravely when she looked over in their direction. She looked over at Yelena, and held out her hand. "Please. We can be sisters. You teach me what you know to defend myself, I'll teach you what I know."

"And what's that?" she asked. Yelena seemed genuinely curious, not prideful.

"Ballet and music. I've trained in that since I was four."

Something in Yelena's expression softened with yearning. "Some of my sisters studied ballet," she said softly. "Or piano."

"I trained in piano and violin," Lucia offered. It might have felt odd before to treat a young girl with as much respect as a girl her own age, but Yelena carried herself with far more gravitas than an ordinary eight year old. She smiled when Yelena took her outstretched hand.

"I remember who I used to be," Yelena told her fiercely.

"So do I," Lucia replied. She paused. "I'm not sure I like her very much anymore."

"She was weak," Yelena told her briskly. "I'm too young to survive on my own, but I could if I had to. You can't, so you're here." This was matter of fact, reminding Lucia of Natasha. "We will make you strong."

Nodding, Lucia caught sight of the soldier leaving the house. She knew she would never see him again, and everything she once knew was gone.

Looking at Yelena, she gave the girl a genuine smile. "I'd like that."

***

The man crouched low, field goggles protecting his eyes and providing some magnification. He didn't really need it, as his vision was sharp. He was dressed in black and purple, a quiver of arrows strapped to his back and a bow in hand. It was an archaic weapon, perhaps, but he never missed what he was aiming at. After a moment, he tapped the earpiece in his good ear to activate it. "Yeah. I can confirm the kill as the Black Widow's. I don't see any trace of her in the building and the alleys are all clear."

"You know what to do," came the voice on the other side of the connection. It was carefully bland, yet conveyed emotion still. "She's a black target."

Black targets were kill on sight orders.

"I'll stay on it," the man replied.

"Stay safe, Hawkeye. She killed the last five teams we sent after her."

Hawkeye laughed in response. "You know me, Coulson. I'm really bad at following examples."

Coulson groaned at his flippant response. "Hawkeye..."

"No, really. I'll keep an eye out. None of the mercs I run with at the moment want anything to do with her, but they're aware of her movements. She took out the last bunch that tried to steal a job out from under her. I gotta say, she's thorough."

"Please let that not be admiration in your tone."

"Hey, I recognize skill when I see it, even if it's in a murderous psychopath."

"Black target," Coulson reminded him.

"I remember," Hawkeye replied. "I gotta get a move on. Nothing to see here, and I think it's going to rain soon."

"Gotta protect that delicate complexion?" Coulson asked, the barest hint of sarcasm in his tone.

"No. It'll ruin my hair," he answered with a grin as he started to move across the rooftop. "I'll check in when I have anything. Hawkeye out."

He would find the Black Widow eventually. And when he did, he had an arrow with her name on it, ready to shoot through her heart.

The End


End file.
